Runaway
by repmetsyrrah
Summary: 1x06 AU. After her actions surrounding the count result in Branson's dismissal, Sybil finds him to apologise.
1. Chapter 1

In honour of the wonderful Magfreak's birthday! Yes, it's late I know, but it's here and that's what counts.

I wrote a little prequel to this fic on tumblr that I'll link to in my profile page which adds a little more background too.

Canon to 1x06, after the count. Thanks to babageneush for the beta.

**Chapter One**

* * *

_This is how you got into this mess._

The words run through Lady Sybil Crawley's mind as she stands on the train platform.

No one knows she's here.

Mary knows she's gone to see Branson but she doesn't know what Sybil had just found out. That Branson had checked out of the Grantham Arms early and boarded a train to London.

Why London?

If someone had asked she'd have assumed he'd head for Liverpool, then Ireland.

_Mary had found her, sensibly waiting until the shouting had died down and their father had stormed out before slipping into her youngest sister's room._

_"I don't know what you expected."_

_"I expected Papa to be reasonable."_

_"You can't expect a father to be reasonable when he sees his child hurt."_

_Sybil disagreed. She had expected punishment, but to fire Branson- that went beyond 'unreasonable'._

_"He had nothing to do with it- he tried to make me leave, as soon as he realised." She laughed bitterly, "he even told me he didn't think Papa would approve."_

_"Mr. Carson gave him a reference," Mary told her, as if it made everything okay._

_"That's not the point!" Sybil cried, her frustration bursting out._

_Mary simply raised her eyebrows. "Well, I hope you don't intend on carrying through with your threat to run away."_

_"Mary, I lost an innocent man his job through my own stupidity, the least I could have done is told him I'm sorry."_

_"It won't do any good, Papa won't have him back."_

_Sybil shrugged helplessly. "It's all I have."_

And now she doesn't even have that.

The train is departing in less than two minutes, and with it her chance to make him understand how truly sorry she was for being so stupid.

Unless she gets on the train.

A thrill of excitement runs through her at the idea.

If she had been wiser, or more thoughtful, perhaps she would have recognised the feeling as the same one she had felt as they drove to the count, the mix of adrenaline and anticipation. If she had taken a moment, she would have remembered how that had turned out, the last time she had deceived someone for her own needs, how her actions had resulted in an innocent man losing his job.

But Sybil is young and headstrong and determined to set things to rights.

She looks down the platform before drawing herself up and, in a decision she will regret for years to come, steps smartly forward and onto the train.

* * *

She finds him near the back, third class of course, where she looks startlingly out of place.

There are no private compartments here, and the passengers stare at her curiously as she makes her way past them and through to the third class carriages when she spots him. Though she almost misses the figure sitting slumped slightly in the chair, his chin resting on one hand as he stares out the window, looking lost in thought.

She stops for a moment, suddenly struck by the realisation she's never seen him like this. For all she knows he's a thinker, he's always been so animated with her. To see him still, silent in his own thoughts feels, oddly intimate.

He looks up, either alerted to her presence somehow or just by coincidence and she jumps, not quite ready just yet.

"Lady Sybil?" His expression is one of complete surprise, though she can hardly blame him. He gathers himself quickly though. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to speak to you before you left." She looks awkwardly round the carriage, hoping no one else will join them, before she takes a seat.

"I'm not sure if you've noticed, m'lady, but I already have."

"Well I had to speak with you."

The silence that follows is awkward. Branson is clearly waiting for her to continue but now that she's here she's suddenly unsure what to say, he was usually the one to start their conversations. But now he just waits.

"I suppose I needed you to know how sorry I am," she starts. "And that I know how stupid I've been."

She looks up then and he stares back, remaining unusually silent. She waits for him to talk, to contradict her, to tell her she is forgiven and that it hadn't really been her fault at all.

But he's not her servant anymore and he's not obligated to lie to appease her. He's still her friend it seems, because he doesn't insult her by disagreeing, no matter how uncomfortable the truth makes her.

"I did tell Papa you had nothing to do with it, really, but-"

"I know, he told me."

She hadn't thought of that. "You spoke to him?"

Branson gives a dismissive shrug. "He spoke to me at least."

Sybil nods, hoping it to be an acceptable reply. She knew what Papa was like but of course, she could speak back and not fear for her livelihood. Thankfully Branson didn't seem to require a verbal response, returning his gaze to the passing countryside. His teeth pull at his bottom lip but Sybil doesn't have to wait long to hear his thoughts.

He turns back to her and takes a deep breath, as if gathering himself, and speaks firmly. "I want you to know I have great admiration for your passion and your willingness to change your world. But the fact is wanting something doesn't make it so- and the world has not yet changed so much that ladies and chauffeurs can be friends without consequence."

"I was never so naive as to think that Papa would like me calling you a friend-" She rushes to assure him but his reply comes just as fast.

"Perhaps you ought to have thought of that before you lied to me."

She recoils at that and he seems to realise he's been too harsh. "I'm sorry," he offers but his apology only serves to make Sybil feel worse.

Hasn't she just proved him right then? Poor little rich girl can't even handle the truth without baulking.

Branson holds her gaze. Sybil presses her lips into a hard line and refuses to look away. "I know what I've done is terrible, I came to apologise not have it thrown in my face," she tells him. "I know what I've done. I do understand that I deserve your anger, even hatred-"

"I could never hate you." His interruption comes quickly and with such certainty she forgets what she had been going to say. "You are young and naive and you were very stupid. I feel hurt that you didn't listen to me- for all you give the orders I thought I had earnt some measure of respect from you-" That stings but she can't deny she deserves it. "So yes, I am hurt, and jobless… But I could never hate you."

His last words are delivered so truly and intently that Sybil finds herself speechless for a moment, suddenly struck with the realisation that Branson might care for her more than as a friend.

But the information is too much to think about right now, not that it's something to entertain at any time. For all he no longer serves her, it's still an impossible notion. Their worlds are too far apart.

She takes a breath and looks away. "I'm glad," she says, her face to the passing world outside. "Maybe I'll stay with you then, if that's the case."

That gets his attention.

"What?"

"I did tell Papa if he fired you I'd run away."

"Sybil…"

She sighs and laughs at her own ridiculousness. "You probably think me truly mad now. Threatening to run away then jumping aboard a train to chase after the chauffeur-" she winces. "Sorry… former…" She closes her eyes, resisting the urge to smack her own forehead. "Sorry."

He laughs then and she shrugs apologetically.

"It does help," he promises her, still with a slight smile. "And I'm very glad you will recover, but no amount of apologising from you will get me another job, or put a roof over my head, or food on my table." He sighs and looks out the window. "But then, that's for me to worry about. The truth is I should have known better than to even give you those pamphlets in the first place."

Sybil almost protests, but hesitates, looking up and realising that there was nothing in his voice, nor in his expression now, to suggest regret. She frowned at him slightly, her face questioning, and his smile widened.

"Yet, even now, I wouldn't change it."

"You wouldn't change _anything_?" She smiles hesitantly, hoping he'll take her teasing for what it is.

He laughs and she relaxes.

"I wouldn't change_ that_ decision. I might see if I could change a few others."

"So would I… If I could."

"I know."

He smiles at her again and suddenly Sybil feels as if a weight is gone from her shoulders. Perhaps not the burden of guilt she still carries for his lost job, but knowing he knew she understood the seriousness of her actions and the depth of her remorse for what has happened is something at least.

"Will you write?" The question comes without thinking but she's glad it does.

"What?"

"Will you write to me? So I know that you're alright despite… me." He hesitates but Sybil presses on. "You're not our chauffeur anymore, we can be friends properly."

He knows as well as she does that that isn't quite the reality of the situation but humours her. "Okay."

"Promise."

"I promise."

"Good."

She sighs and then takes a new breath. "Now, I suppose I'll get off at the next stop, if I catch the next train headed back no one should even miss me."

She turns back with a smile only to see him frowning at her. When she catches his eye he looks away, smoothing his features into the model of an emotionless servant.

She hates that he stills feels the need to do that but before she can tell him to stop it the train starts to slow down rapidly and a porter enters their car.

"Stay on board, please," he orders curtly before moving on.

Sybil frowns, confused. "What's going on?"

"You take the train more often," Branson says, twisting to watch the officer pass. "You tell me. Is it normal?"

"It's not unusual to be held up. They usually tell you why, but sometimes not."

"I guess this is the latter." He shrugs but Sybil frowns, leaning out of the seat and watching two more policemen on the platform.

Something twists in her stomach and she presses her lips together. Something on the platform is making her uneasy, though she brushes it off.

"Must be," she agrees, only moments before a familiar figure appears on the platform, and her stomach truly does drop.

"Oh no."

"What is it?"

"Aunt Rosamund."

"Oh." He turns with a worried look on his face but Sybil gathers herself and stands.

"Don't worry about me," she tells him firmly. "I'll be fine. I'll accept what happens, I'm done letting others suffer the consequences of my actions."

He smiles, and she lets herself feel proud for a moment, that he can see her as she wants to be now. And Sybil forms a memory she'll hold onto, desperately at times, for the next several hard, long years of her life.

She disembarks the train quickly, not allowing herself time to dread the weeks of punishment that lie ahead.

However, the response is entirely unexpected.

Rosamund, far from looking angry, gasps at the sight of her and dashes to her side.

"Oh, Sybil, thank God you're alright, we were all so worried."

Before she can apologise for what has clearly been a more upsetting venture for her family than she ever intended, two police officers appear beside them.

"Lady Sybil, are you hurt?"

"Hurt?" She shakes her head. "Of course not, I'm sorry I didn't mean to-"

"We've got him, sir."

The officer turns and nods but Sybil's stomach feels sick, even if her head has yet to figure it out but her gut knows something is very wrong.

"Got who?"

It doesn't take long for her fear to be confirmed.

"Tom Branson," the first officer tells her. "We're arresting him, milady, on kidnapping charges. I promise you we'll put him away for this."


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews on the first chapter! Here's the next part, hopefully it's worth the wait.

Thanks to babageneush for the beta.

**Chapter Two**

* * *

Sybil wonders if he regrets ever speaking to her now.

At first she assumed it had been a simple misunderstanding. It had been a great shock but once she had recovered she had been sure simply explaining it to her father would clear Branson's name.

She can't learn a lesson, she realises.

_Stupid_, naive, rich girl.

Her father had refused to listen the first time, why on Earth would she ever had thought this would be different?

She sits on her bed, hugging her knees to her chest and wondering where he is right now.

_Awaiting trial._

Where did one await trial? In prison? Or was there another special place for those not yet convicted?

Sybil knows nothing of the conditions in prison. Why would she?

No one she knows has been, no one she knows would ever go, perhaps short of murder. A few words in the right ear, more than a few pounds in the right hand and it would all go away. A disappearance to India or the continent but never a cell.

Her room is too big. Why does she need so much space anyway?

She gets up and paces restlessly, the room suddenly shrinking around her until it's much too small to contain her distress.

"_Lady Raven's ladies maid saw Sybil riding the train with a _very _working class man." Rosamund told her brother and sister-in-law once Sybil had been returned to the Abbey, her questions still unanswered._

"_So I called the police of course! After what you told me he was like. An Irish revolutionary, it's a miracle you weren't all burnt in your beds! Honestly, Robert, what were you thinking?"_

"_It doesn't matter what I was thinking, what the devil were _you _thinking, Sybil?"_

"_I only went to apologise for lying to him!"_

"_You ought to be apologising to me, have you _any _idea what we've been going through once we found you missing!"_

"_Papa, I'm sorry, but you can't punish Branson, not any more-_

"_Call the doctor."_

_Sybil frowned at the interruption from her mother. "I don't need a doctor. I need-"_

"_No, my dear, you're bleeding." _

_Sybil's hand flew to her head, feeling the wetness on her forehead and in her hair immediately. The cut she had received at the count had reopened. As if it had only been waiting for her to notice it, a painful, dull ache made itself suddenly known as well and she groaned._

"_Oh, Robert, she's not well."_

"_No, it's just the cut, I'm fine-"_

"_Sybil, darling, come with me."_

_She tried to resist her mother's hold but the pain in her head was getting worse again and she was feeling too lightheaded to put up a proper fight. She heard her aunt continue as she was led from the room, the sick feeling in her stomach nothing to do with her head wound._

"_She's injured and confused, can't you see how he's taken advantage of her?"_

"_I'm still not sure it's that simple, Rosamund. Sybil might be telling the truth."_

"_Robert, that's irrelevant. She's being presented next month. You can't let anyone think she went willingly, they won't let her into the palace. It will ruin the whole family."_

"_I know… We'll sort something, I promise."_

_Sybil was going to be sick._

* * *

The case is swift and final.

She had recently suffered a head injury, caused in no small part by the actions of the defendant. She hadn't been thinking clearly at all.

She had been so sweet and kind hearted, but in her addled state (along with her youth), she had been a fine target for a man wanting revenge on his employer. Some sweet words in her ear, promises of a life of excitement in a foreign land if only she followed him. She had been easy prey.

Her father could have saved him.

Could have.

Rosamund had a friend in London, an investigator who she had encouraged to take a personal interest. A high-profile case, a recognisable victim and easy-to-distrust perpetrator. Prime material to make his name on.

He had come to Downton to speak with Lord Grantham personally, to persuade him of the importance of a swift conviction and imprisonment.

How would it look, he had impressed upon Sybil's father, for a man of his standing to let such an act go unpunished?

If he did nothing he would be a laughing stock at best- or become the most hated man in the aristocracy. If Branson got off this could set a new precedent for servants who felt wronged by their employers when they were dismissed. Forget taking the silver, what if they decided to do as Branson had done and take a daughter? Young girls were so very impressionable. Lord Grantham had to show this was unacceptable, before anyone else got hurt.

Or was he really so soft that he would forgive a man who had manipulated his daughter so completely?

Or… did he want people to believe she went willingly? Was the upstanding and honourable Earl of Grantham approving of his youngest daughter running away with a servant? Was she perhaps in trouble, he suggested- not that Inspector Jones thought so. No, he knew Lord Grantham would _never_ let that happen, but think of how it would _look_.

_If_ Branson got away with it.

He didn't have to though, they could press charges, put him away, show the world Lady Sybil was a victim, not a servant's whore. Lord Grantham was a protector, not a weak-willed, spineless coward.

The case itself would be simple too; ladies were fragile, Irishmen were brutes. It was so black and white it was a wonder there was any need for a trial at all.

Sybil had never seen anyone look less brutish than Branson.

Her father had caved under the pressure. The police on one side, his sister on the other. Reminding him Sybil's debut was coming up, a kidnapping would gain her sympathy, an attempted elopement with a lower class lover would make her a pariah, and drag the entire family into scandal. Mary and Edith would become victims too, who would want the bring the sisters of such a harlot into their family name?

In the end the detective had gotten his example and the house had been rescued from scandal.

Her father had 'saved' the family name- and lost his youngest daughter forever.

He ordered her to understand, not to be so stupid. Branson would go on trial for his actions and that was that. He would only get a few years, a small sacrifice to keep an entire family from becoming social outcasts.

Sybil refused to speak to him.

* * *

Five years.

Of all people it's Thomas who tells her, the news having reached the servants hall before any other ear.

"It could be worse. He could have been given much longer."

He probably could have been exceuted, Sybil thinks. He'd had no lawyer, unable to afford even the cheapest of representation (if anyone would have taken him), and it would have been useless against a system that was set on throwing him in a cell by any means.

He was an Irish Republican, convicted of kidnapping a daughter of the English aristocracy, who knew what his intentions were? There would be few who'd protest against seeing him swaying from the end of a rope.

"Do you believe me, Thomas?"

Thomas' eyes flicked to the door, scanning the hall before returning to hers.

"I'd never believe you to be so easily swayed by a pretty face and a few charming words," he tells her. "And Mr. Branson always seemed a good sort."

Sybil nods, holding her tears until he's gone.

"Thank you, Thomas."

It's something at least.

* * *

Her father could have saved him, could have refused to press charges, but in the end it's her fault and this she knows better than her own name.

She knows she's ruined Branson's life more fully than any job loss ever could have.

She's lost him five years of it for a start. Five years in his prime he's now to spend in a small cell, eating meager and tasteless meals and being let out for an hour a day to walk silently in a circle with murderers and thieves.

What would he do if they didn't let him read? Who would he talk to?

She can't imagine her fellow inmates being up for in-depth political debates.

And when he gets out, well. Who would employ a criminal? A former kidnapper. Perhaps he could go back to Ireland and find work there, as a mechanic or a labourer. The sort of jobs that would waste his mind and never lead anywhere someone as clever as him could have gone.

He was going to be a politician.

How many people would vote for him now?

Five years wasn't long in the scheme of things, but it wouldn't end once he was out. His life would be wasted, thanks to her.

* * *

The first year passes almost before she realises.

She makes an uninspiring debut, retiring from her own ball after an hour and dancing with only Matthew and her friend Imogen's cousin, also called Tom.

The invitations come regardless, the trial not long past, everyone wanting a chance to hear first hand about the kidnapping attempt by the horrid Irish chauffeur.

Her mother comes to her after the third rejected invitation. Pleading with her to see reason, to understand the pressure her father had been under, to forgive him and move on.

"He was only doing what's best for you. You have a proper chance now, he was only thinking of you."

With every word Sybil hates her more.

* * *

War is declared, catching no one by surprise, yet life still marches on.

Sybil returns letters only from her dearest friends, and even those grow less.

Her anger fades after a while, though never disappears. Her despair lessens until she can start to enjoy life again.

She lets her sisters in; though with Mary always on their father's side Sybil knows they'll never truly be as close as they were.

Surprisingly, it's Edith who becomes her confidante. Her sister has no loyalty to her parents, always so willing to overlook her in favour of darling Mary and precocious Sybil. Mary, of course, basked in the attention, only too willing to remind her sister of her place as least favourite.

Sybil on the other hand had always been kind to both her sisters, and so, her relationship with Mary broken, Sybil finds in Edith a companion who's willing to lend her an ear to talk to and a shoulder to cry on when Sybil finds herself in need of both.

"Sometime I wonder what he's doing at this moment you know," she muses out loud, on one of their walks. "Here we are enjoying the sunlight and so much space… And I wonder if he has a window in whatever dark, small cell they've thrown him in."

"I don't think he'd blame you," Edith tells her.

"You can't know that."

"No," Edith agrees. "But I know you and if he would think you had any hand in putting him in prison, then he can't have really known you at all."

The guilt is constant.

It's not long before she realises she needs something to do. The War picks up pace around them, and Sybil grows desperate to be of use.

It's Edith who suggests it, the second time Isobel is unable to come to dinner due to her work.

"Why don't you train?" she asks after dinner, when both girls have retreated to Sybil's room, their usual haunt in lieu of the awkward silences in the drawing room. "You'd be good as a nurse."

"Won't you miss me?" Sybil asks, trying to sound teasing.

"Of course," Edith assures her, "but I want you to be happy, and that's not going to happen here."

Sybil's known that for a long time.


	3. Chapter 3

Last chapter, hope it's worth the wait.

Thanks to magfreak for the beta on this one.

**Chapter Three**

* * *

"I'm going to London."

"For how long?" Her mother's voice is quiet, afraid.

Sybil almost tells her she'll only be six months but she stops herself, realising that's not really true at all. Now she's been given her escape.

"I doubt I'll come back."

"Isobel says you're going to train as a nurse." Lady Grantham's voice wavers but she controls it. "I always knew you would do something good."

It's the pride in her mother's voice that almost breaks her.

"I'll write," she promises and leaves before she surrenders more.

* * *

Only Edith sees her off.

* * *

London is everything Sybil hoped it would be and more.

She's trained in a real hospital, thrown into the thick of it in her third week. The trainees work hard. They're given long hours and only one day off a week.

It's harder work than Sybil's ever known and the first few weeks she spend her entire day off regaining her strength for the next round. Over time however her stamina builds, driven by the overwhelming sense of purpose and fulfillment her new life has she grows stronger, physically and mentally, until she finds herself reaching the end of the day feeling tired, but not broken.

She makes friends, no one is aware, or cares, about her title so long as she can hold her own in the hospital.

She more than manages that.

* * *

It's only a month after Sybil become a fully fledged nurse that it happens.

It's not that she doesn't think about Branson. She often reads the papers and wonders what he'd think, what they'd discuss if he was driving her to Ripon and they had the car to themselves. But she had no idea she could still be affected this way.

She's called to change a young officer's bandages. He's new, recently returned from France with one less arm than he'd left with.

She smiles as she sets down her tray. "Hello, Lieutenant Samuels, I'm Nurse Crawley."

"Nurse Crawley." He smiles. His voice is dulled by the medication but the Irish accent coming through clear. "You can call me Tom if you'd like."

She doesn't know why it hits her so suddenly. Afterwards, she's rather ashamed. She should be more professional, but in that moment it all comes upon her, and she places the bandage back on the tray with shaking hands.

"Excuse me."

She turns and almost plows into Claire Morgan, another recent trainee who'd become a good friend of hers.

"Oh, careful," Nurse Morgan laughs. "Everything alright?"

Sybil makes a noncommittal noise and hurries past, almost sprinting out of the ward.

"Sybil?"

She's not surprised when Claire finds her in the storeroom, the only place she'd been sure would be empty.

Claire doesn't ask any questions, simply sitting on the floor beside her.

"Don't be upset with yourself," she says after a while. "It happens to the best. We're so overstretched here, and tired. I think it amplifies the littler things we might otherwise manage. Best to do is let it out then go home and sleep."

Sybil nods, wiping away the last of her tears.

"I'm sorry, I hope I didn't upset him."

"I changed the bandage and gave him enough for his pain. I doubt he'll remember." She smiles, but Sybil can't bring herself to return it.

"He reminded me of an old friend of mine."

"Someone you lost?" Claire asks after a long silence.

"He's not a soldier. But… he is lost, I suppose. I made a mistake and he paid dearly for it. He still is."

"He's alive then?"

Sybil nods.

"You've got more than most in this War then," Claire tells her. "And you've time to make amends."

"How?" Sybil fights back tears.

"You could write."

"He probably hates me. I can't."

"If you care this much for him, I find that hard to believe."

Sybil shakes her head.

"It wouldn't make a difference. Nothing I do now will."

Claire is stubborn though.

"You never know until you try."

* * *

She puts a return address but no name.

The lettering is clean and practiced, the words as simple as she can manage.

She keeps it as factual as she can.

She's a nurse now, fully qualified, working in one of London's busiest hospitals. She loves it, she has purpose. Yet even for her busy days and fulfilling work she thinks of him every day. She hopes he is well (as well as he can be) and she wishes to hear from him.

Though she understands if he wants nothing to do with her.

It's been two and a half years since he's seen her but somehow she doesn't think he'd forget her hand, even if it shakes writing the address.

_Tom Branson  
__Harrow Prison  
__London_

His response arrives two days later. All six pages of it.

* * *

He refuses to let her visit.

But Sybil is older and wiser and with far less to lose. She dresses in her uniform and calls herself Patricia Levinson, and no one bats an eye. After all, who even remembers the youngest of Lord Grantham's daughters?

The guard frowns at her request.

"The only person who ever comes to see him is his brother."

"Well, now someone else has come."

He shrugs and takes her fake name and leads her into a small, dimly lit room.

She hadn't told him she was coming but, even though he had warned her not to, he doesn't seem at all surprised to see her.

"Patricia?"

She smiles. "I think I prefer Trish."

He sits opposite her, shaking his head.

"I couldn't believe it when I received your letter. I was so worried I— God knows no one's told me anything in here and— I honestly thought your father would have you sent off to India or Europe and had you married off there."

Sybil laughs bitterly, she's tried to avoid thinking about her father since she'd left.

"I've no doubt it crossed his mind. But I don't have to put up with him anymore," she sighs, moving on to better topics. "I left Downton almost a year ago. I'm a nurse now."

His smile returns.

"I read. It suits you," he says as if Sybil becoming a nurse is the most natural thing in the world.

Sybil can't help her own smile, the relief of having someone not only accept, but understand her passion for her work rushing over her like a burst of fresh air.

"I love it, though I feel selfish sometimes, for enjoying a day when it's filled with so many other's suffering."

"Which you work tirelessly to alleviate," Tom points out. "It's hard to think there's not fulfillment found in that."

She has to look away then. She had forgotten how _easy _ he was to talk too, how well he understands her.

How he makes her feel.

"I rent a flat with another nurse, my friend Claire. It's small, but nice."

"I can hardly judge living arrangements."

He smiles at his joke but it falls flat on Sybil ears. She's suddenly harshly aware of their surroundings. The prisons is dark and cold and damp. She can hear shouting in the distance and sharp orders barked out, punctuated by metallic bangs of batons against cell doors.

This is a cruel place.

Her Tom doesn't belong here.

"Sybil?"

He looks worried but she can't bring herself to lie and pretend to be unfazed.

"It seems unfair to go and enjoy my day while leaving you here, in a place like this."

"You can," Tom insists, leaning forward to take her hands in his, ignoring the guard's warning.

Sybil feels her own hands holding onto his without even thinking.

"Please," he begs. "For me, be happy… and write to me of it."

* * *

It's an empty day she doesn't receive a letter from him now.

He talks little of his own life, occasionally he will mention a conversation or a particularly bad night's sleep. Mostly he talks of books and the news he's allowed to read, sometimes several days old. He speaks of his family when he hears from them. His brother tries to visit when he makes it to London but it's not very often.

_Not a great loss,_ he writes to her of one visit. _We're brothers, and we do love one another but he's not got a lot to say. Though I dearly appreciate his effort._

She tells him everything of hers, and yet he still begs more in every letter.

_Tell me more about the patient who's learning to walk again. Has he made much progress? _

_How was your outing with Claire? Send her my regards, I'm starting to feel as though I know her myself, with all I've heard._

_Tell me everything, please. _

She visits often, as much as her shifts and the prison will allow. It seems funny almost, to have trips to prison become the highlights off her week, but Sybil's learnt life is anything but expected.

Claire has to be aware, Sybil knows. They work different shifts and whoever is home first collects the post, she has to have seen the address but she makes nothing of it. She simply does as any friend would do for a beau and teases Sybil about her 'dreamy face' when she reads the letter or laughs as she spend far too long making sure her hair is just so on visiting days.

Sybil stops asking about his days. He explained in one of his letters very briefly the they were let out for three meals a day and exercise that involves walking silently in a circle. For the rest of it he's confined to a small cell. Since then he either avoids or outright ignores her questions.

She doesn't take offence, realising that if it were her, she would want to think about anything else too.

Some things they keep for her visits, others they only write of, finding them easier to discuss without the constant presence of a guard.

At first she tries to avoid any mention of that fateful day on the train, until one day, without warning, she finds herself pouring her innermost fears and anxieties onto the page. For all that she's visited him for weeks now, she can't help worry he resents her. That every time she walks into the visiting room he remembers he's there because of her.

His reply is shorter than usual, as if he had to have her hear his response as soon as possible.

_What's done is done. You acted only out of kindness, for all that has happened because of it that is what matters. Perhaps I can say a naive young girl once lost me my job but nothing more. _

_My life here is not unbearable, but it was never happy until your first letter came. My dearest Sybil, you had no hand in putting me here, I never believed it. I hate to think you do._

His words aren't enough to banish her guilt entirely, but the next day, Sybil would swear she wakes up feeling like the weight of a world has been lifted from her.

* * *

It doesn't so much happen, as she realises it has happened.

Then again it was bound to. They well far too well suited. He understood her like no one else ever had and he _accepted _her for precisely who she was, not who he wanted her to be. And he loved her for it.

Sybil finds it funny in an odd way. They had skirted about the idea for so long but once she considered it, there wasn't any other man who could have taken her heart and given his own so completely.

Perhaps at Downton the idea would have caused trouble. It's odd, how a Lady and a chauffeur falling in love would have caused such a scandal, but as simply a nurse and a prisoner, there's no one who is entitled to care.

* * *

She breaks her promise to her mother and returns to Downton for Edith's wedding.

She gives an insincere apology for missing Mary and Matthew's, but the memory of Mary's unwavering support for their father's actions is still sharp. The memories of fresh bruises on Tom's face the week before and the way his bones jut out now even sharper.

Edith had fought her until she agreed to stay the night in the Abbey. If Sybil was truly there to support her she must come to the the dinner.

In the end, it passes unspectacularly. Sybil seated between the bride and a guest of the groom's. There's a genuine effort on his part to engage her and Sybil lets him, surprised by the end to find she's rather enjoyed herself.

She doesn't go through to the drawing room of course. Against all odds she had fun and there's no need to ruin it by engaging with her family more than necessary.

The wedding is just as beautiful and lavish as Sybil expected. Seated near the front she ignores the stares and whispers as guests try to decide if she really is the missing Crawley daughter and where she has been for so long.

There are the photos, a family one, then Edith requests one of simply her and Sybil which her younger sister gladly agrees to.

Mary doesn't even look surprised.

"Will you wait until we are done?" Edith asks. "I'll drive you to the station and we'll say our proper goodbyes."

"Edith, it's your wedding. What will your husband think, abandoning him moments after he slid the ring on?"

Edith simply shrugs. "He'll understand- or it'll be a short marriage. Besides, I think Mama knows once we leave tomorrow I'll be visiting as little as I can, I need a moment's peace before she descends on me tonight."

The drive is the most fun Sybil's had in a while, particularly the looks they get as Edith piles into the front seat still in her dress, her new husband laughing and her family looking shocked.

Sybil waves as they depart and behind her, she catches a last glimpse of the imposing figure of Downton Abbey in the distance.

She's learnt by now that life is too unpredictable to speak in absolutes. So she doesn't make it a certainty but as she watches her childhood home disappear from view, she knows she will most likely never return.

The thought doesn't worry her at all.

* * *

She starts counting at six months.

She switches to weeks when there are eight left.

When there are only four weeks (twenty-eight days) until his release she buys a calendar and starts crossing off the dates.

"That'll only make it go slower," he teases her when she tells him, but she knows he's celebrating every passing day even more than she is.

Claire moves the calendar to the living room after growing tired of Sybil returning to her room to count the days at least three times an hour.

"It's not that much."

"No, it's probably more."

Sybil laughs, and feels a sudden tinge sadness.

She will miss Claire terribly.

* * *

She's so terrified of being late on the day that she arrives half an hour early and paces in front of the gates for forty minutes, growing more and more anxious as the minutes after the time she was told to come grow longer.

The driver of the taxi she's hired pulls out a newspaper and pretends not to be with her.

The small door to the side of the main entrance opens and Sybil's heart stops.

He exits holding onto a small bag, and dressed in the same clothes he'd worn on the train all those years ago and she's running before she even realises.

He sees her a moment later and manages little faster than a walk but Sybil more than makes up for any speed he lacks, crossing the distance between than in less than a moment.

The embrace without hesitation and Sybil feels her whole body flood with relief so intense she feels lightheaded.

Were they not in the middle of a footpath outside a building she never wants to see again in her life, Sybil would have been happy to stay that way forever.

Instead she takes him home.

* * *

That morning Claire pointedly informed Sybil she was going to visit her family for a few days. Sybil blushed a little at the frankness with which the intention was made clear but thanked her dear friend sincerely.

She's almost nervous as she pays the taxi driver and leads Tom up the stairs to her little flat.

"It's not much," she warns him.

"It looks wonderful," he replies, genuinely.

She wonders if she should wait but she can't bear to.

"Come here, I have something I want to show you."

He follows her into their small kitchen and takes the envelope Sybil picks up off the table and offers to him.

"Open it."

He gives her a bemused look but humours her, pulling out two pieces of paper.

"What are these?"

"Tickets. To America."

He stares at the pieces of paper in his hand and Sybil finds herself growing nervous, second guessing her plan for the first time.

"You don't have to come, and if you do, it doesn't have to be with me. But that's where I'm going, and I would quite like to go with you."

He's silent.

Sybil realises she's lied. She's not going anywhere without him.

But America is their best choice, she _knows_.

He looks back up at her, still not speaking.

"Of course you have family in Ireland and I understand if you—"

"When can we leave?"

He smiles at her and she laughs, holding out her arms. "Whenever. I finish at the hospital on Wednesday, my lease is only by the week. Claire's known for months I'm leaving once you're out. She'll manage. I'm a free woman."

She doesn't recall him crossing the distance between them but suddenly she's in his arms and his mouth is on hers and she's very thankful he's holding her up because her legs don't seem to be able to manage that on their own just now.

She suddenly understands what had been making her so upset with the limitations of visits in prison. She had been so frustrated with it, so desperate to touch him but until this moment she hadn't really known why. But it was this, _this _was what she had needed.

Her hands are in his hair and her heart does a funny sort of flip when he moans against her mouth. She hums her appreciation of what his own hands are doing, running up and down her back, pulling her closer to him, both desperate to make up for so much missed time.

"Sybil, please love, don't cry."

It's not until she hears his voice and feels his hands on her wet face that she realises she is.

"I'm sorry." He laughs softly and kisses her and she realises he thinks she's apologising for her tears when she means so much more. "Tom, I am sorry, for everything."

She sees the understanding in his eyes.

"No, Sybil—"

"Tom, please let me say it." She gathers herself and looks up, meeting his eyes. "I will regret every day the pain my actions have caused you but there's no way to undo it all, though if I could—"

"Sybil, listen to me." He takes her face in his hands, brushing away her tears with his thumb. "No regrets. Leave them all here in England. What happened has happened, and it's done. I am here now, a free man, with you, that's all that matters."

She nods, her hand coming to hold his, still resting on her face. She can't stop the other going to his cheek, brushing a yellowing mark she knew he'd even now never tell her how he received.

Tom closes his eyes and leans into her touch for a moment and Sybil's heart breaks for him as she realises how little human contact he's had for so long. And she knows none of it would have been comforting.

He reaches a hand up to take hers and kisses her palm softly.

"That'll heal, love. Besides, I've a nurse to look after me now, don't I?"

Sybil nods and buries her face in his shoulder, holding him as tightly as she could. Reassuring herself he was truly here now, with her.

She knows it might be hard, five years in prison would not be recovered from in one day. Nor would five years of of feeling responsible for putting someone there.

But at least they could recover now.

Tom bruises were already healing.

And they would too.

She nods. "No regrets. I promise."

"Then I have only one more question."

"Yes?"

"May I kiss you again?"

"Yes."

The words has barely left her lips before he was kissing her again and Sybil was taken by surprise at how different and new it was. Hadn't they kissed just a few minutes ago? Yet she feels the same rush, as if it was new all over again.

She wonders if she'll ever tire of it.

"I lied, I have another," Tom breathes after they part.

"Another question or another kiss?"

"Both."

"The question first, then."

"We are to be married, aren't we?"

Sybil laughs, blinking back more tears, though this time it's the sheer happiness in she can't contain. "What a silly question," she tells him. "Of course we are."

He's crying then too but Sybil takes him in her arms again and this time they don't stop, not until they're naked and curled around each other in her tiny bed. Claire, horrible person she is, had left a box of french letters out earlier that week, so Sybil knew exactly where they were.

Sybil thinks she might want children one day, little girls with his eyes and her hair. Little boys with his chin and her nose. And all should have his smile, she decides.

He gives a sigh beside her, his arms moving to bring them closer, his mouth finding her neck. Sybil lets her head fall back and moans appreciatively as his mouth finds just the right place to elicit more sounds of pleasure.

Sybil shifts closer to him, even as small as her bed is, finding a way to press her body more firmly to his.

He curls around her and she can feel against her skin that his ribs are terribly obvious and she saw just before scars Sybil knows will never fully disappear. But for the first time in two years she finds herself unworried by the thought.

She doesn't wonder who will look after him or how to take care of him. She knows every day he will come home to her now and that soon enough his body will fill out again. That she can ensure he receives proper meals, learn his favourite recipes and have them waiting when he's hungry. That she can take him on long walks, free to talk and go wherever they pleased. She knows she can take care of him now.

She doesn't need to wonder who will comfort her when she has a terrible day. She doesn't need to worry who will work out the painful kinks in her back after a long day on her feet. She knows now she can come home to him, she'll teach him her favourite meals they can be ready after a long evening shift.

She doesn't need to dread the crushing disappointment of the guards telling them their time is up, the pain of taking his hand and being threatened with being removed if she doesn't let go.

She can hold him for the rest of her life.

"I'm never letting you go, you know," she tells him, turning in the small bed so she can place her forehead on his. "No matter how tired we become of one another. No matter how badly we fight. I won't be apart from you ever again."

He pulls her closer and she feels his chest shake as he laughs. "I'll hold you to that," he promises.

And Sybil knows she'll have the rest of their lives to make sure he does.


End file.
